


Mother

by cellard00rs



Series: CSAC series [7]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preston goes to visit his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother

It isn’t really planned – it just happens.

Preston Northwest is at the family estate for the weekend and his future is looming before him. He’s freshly graduated from private school and West Coast Tech waits on his horizon, but in between he has an empty summer – or not completely empty. His father has it mapped out – almost every day excruciatingly planned. After all, he had that unfortunate ‘slip up’ during his sixteenth summer – just because a few years have passed doesn’t mean he’s incapable of making similar mistakes.

Still, the leash has slackened slightly and it’s led to this. He’s wandered over the grounds – done his resolute best to avoid the gardens, the greenhouses, but there are plants here and there, rebellious flowers that have broken through the immaculately kept grounds.

They would most likely be viewed as weeds (some are, in point of fact) but as he walks around he finds himself collecting a few. He’s gathered them and other elements (long leaves, uniquely shaped twigs) and constructed a very crude, yet oddly lovely arrangement.

He finds himself carrying this strange little array towards where she rests. Several Northwests are interned here and she is chief among them. Or at least, she is so to him. Her remains are no doubt long since gone – nothing but soil, the most intermittent bits of ash, and yet he approaches her mausoleum as if she’s still perfectly preserved inside.

He enters the cool edifice and walks towards the perfectly sculpted marble bust that resembles her, the plague beneath reading her full name, her date of birth and death and he offers a wistful smile, “Hello, mother.”

Naturally there is no answer.

Preston’s father would look down on him for this - would call it a foolish flight of fancy, a childish action. One should not talk to inanimate objects. He should but stand here - quiet, respectful. There should be nothing but internal observations, silent thoughts not breathed into spoken words. Yet here he is, unable to help himself, “I apologize for not visiting sooner.”

His words ring in his ears, bounce off in an echo. He hates them. He keeps talking, “I’ve been accepted to a very fine school. I believe you would be proud, had you remained with us.”

Preston sighs, moving the bundle about in his hands, “I brought this for you. It is a paltry collection, quite sad to be completely truthful. I’m tempted to not even leave it – you deserve far better than this ragtag assortment, but I’m afraid it will have to do.”

He rests it upon on one of the marble sills worked into the walls, “It is my understanding that father rarely frequents this mausoleum – if he ever does at all. So, I am somewhat confidant he will remain blissfully unaware of this. No doubt some worker will find this offering, dispose of it – but perhaps you will, ah, enjoy it in the meantime.”

A flash runs through him, cold embarrassment, and part of him wants to take the stupid arrangement back. It’s so infantile – a silly construction. Nothing more than weeds, twigs, and leaves. Things he thought looked pretty together. So stupid.

He leaves it there, continues to speak as if she can listen, “Under different circumstances, I would’ve brought something more apropos – chrysanthemums, lilies – perhaps even some gladiolus, if I thought I could get my hands on them but, as you are well aware, I no longer have access to such finery.”

 _She’s not aware_ , a corner of his mind hisses, _she’s dead. She died not long after you came into being. Her last breath was drawn but moments from your first. She never knew you, she will never know you. There is nothing after this. No other form of existence, of life, of being. She’s gone. Death is the end and there’s nothi-_

Preston cuts off his string of thoughts by speaking, by forcing himself to go on so as to keep his mind silent, “However, I believe this rudimentary collection can at least be viewed as sufficient. These items were collected from around the estate and therefore have some ties to our soil, our hearth and home.”

He licks his lips, eyes casting downwards, “Although, perhaps – not your own. Seeing as you were born into this world a Van Pelt.”

“I’m afraid I am woefully ignorant of your family,” he continues, “Father is quite focused on his own lineage. To him, that is the most important part of my heredity. The Northwest bloodline is the sole focus of my roots and anything from the Van Pelt line has little, to no influence, as to who I am as an individual.”

The air feels oddly cooler, almost sad, and that is pure insanity. Places do not have _feelings_ to them. They do not influence emotion. Preston knows this. He knows it and does his best to ignore the weight that has settled onto his heart, “Although I will confess some curiosity on my part, I…”

Preston stops, swallows, and hates himself all the more, “…I wonder what you were like. What my life might have been, had you…”

The sound of his throat clearing is almost deafening, “Orchids! Had I access to whatever I wished…I would have brought you orchids.”

It’s as if his body is possessed. His head rises, his eyes (suspiciously glassy) look at the statue and one hand flies up of its own accord, fingertips lightly tracing a stone cheek. The need to talk has passed. She cannot hear him anyway. She never even knew him. And he never knew her. He draws his hand back, buries it and its equal into his pockets. He turns to leave, to just go. He tells himself that he should quickly forget that he ever indulged himself in something so asinine.

Instead he whispers, “Goodbye mother. I love you.”

_I love you._

He didn’t even _know_ her. He closes his eyes and viciously ignores the one tear that’s managed to escape. Ignores the feel of it curling ever so softly down the curve of his face as he walks away.


End file.
